


Red Ledger

by einfach_mich



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/einfach_mich/pseuds/einfach_mich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've got red on my ledger..."</p><p>Yeah, so I wrote the backstory. This is based on movieverse canon as it was presented. I blame Joss Whedon, Scarlett Johansson and Jeremy Renner. Oh yeah and Clark Gregg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Ledger

When she thinks back to that frigid evening in Prague she doesn't remember the details of her assignment, not the name of the mark or even who hired her for the job. Incidentals compared to what occurred in that shadowy alley. 

She does however remember the sounds—the click of her heels on the frosty pavement, the wet gurgle of the man dying beneath her blade, and the sharp click from somewhere above her head. It was a foreign sound back then, but the implied danger in its tone was unmistakable.

Natasha kept her gaze trained on the kill, refusing to acknowledge the other person in the alley, but it quickly proved to be a waste of effort. There was a soft hiss of air and a searing explosion of pain in her shoulder. The force of the hit threw her forward and sent her running.

Utilizing the burst of adrenaline, she pushes through the pain and remains focused on escape. She knows the layout of the city. Once she got out of this narrow alleyway she will have more options for escape. There’s no winning in a projectile fight when the enemy has the upper ground. Speed and an escape are her only chance. A few yards away lies an entrance to the sewers. She runs for it as she emerges onto the empty street. It is a mistake, one that she quickly pays for as pain explodes through her calf. 

In a split second she recalculated, choosing a new strategy and tumbled clumsily to the ground. She let out an exaggerated cry, accelerated her breathing, and slowly dragged herself over the freezing ground, even though she could have run on her leg. It was a game she had played before, acting like prey to see what kind of predator she was dealing with. 

The footsteps were sure and steady, the time between them giving her all she needed to estimate the size of and gender. Male, about her height, which was small for most men, but not unusual in their line of work. It works to your be underestimated, puts prey at ease and exposes their vulnerabilities. 

Black boots appear before her face, their simple design telling her more about her attacker than any words he could say. American, non-military, but most definitely government funded. The scuffs and nicks in the leather spoke of a lack of vanity, the wear told her of his experience, and the balanced stance told her he was a trained fighter. Good information, but the most important would only be gained by looking at the man himself. 

Natasha waited another second, continuing to play the part of frightened victim griped with fear, before tilting her head to look at eyes the color of tempered steel. He notched the bow, cold eyes staring down the shaft of the arrow into her own, and the certainty in his gazed settled into her bones.

She faltered, all artifice falling away in the face of the familiar sight. Those eyes, she recognized the chilling calculation and emptiness. She saw them in the mirror every day. He would not listen to her pleas or play lion to her lamb. He was not a man ruled by desire, ego, or rules. He was a killer. A true taker of life and she saw her own death in his eyes.

She would die there on her knees in a filthy Czech street, alone and chilled to the bone, Natalia Alianova Romanova would breathe no longer. She would end, the never-ending parade of death would end, and maybe, she would be granted some sliver of peace. The solid weight of the thought brought a small smile to her lips. 

The gesture felt strange on her face, likely because for the first time in memory it was genuine. Relief was such a terrifyingly beautiful emotion, like a cleansing fire burning away her will to fight or even care. She knelt in the cold but couldn’t feel anything except the intoxicating euphoria of inevitability. 

Then it occurred to her that she was not in fact dead yet. She returned her attention to her killer. His eyes were still upon her, but the arrow and bow had lowered.

Then he spoke the words she would never forget.

"How many?"

The simple question might have confused outsiders, but they knew what they were. They could smell it on each other's skin. She understood his meaning in an instant.

"I lost count."

The truth tasted bitter on her tongue.

He nodded once before his fist came down hard on her temple. She plunged into the welcoming blanket of unconsciousness. 

Awareness returned with pain and a hint nausea. The woman speaking beside her had the clinical tone of a doctor in her speech, but the cold calculation of a scientist in her manner. Natasha pretended to remain unconscious while the others in the room spoke. 

“No signs of concussion. The shoulder and leg injury are minor and won’t slow her down.” The female voice spoke with a clipped tone and punctuated her words with the snap of latex. “She will be able to perform at full capacity in a few weeks at the most.”

“Thank you, Professor Johnson,” a male voice replied with an exaggerated sigh. “Now, if I can just get an answer as to why she still has a pulse. Barton!”

"Sir." She heard the voice of her death answer the other man. “She was captured before the cartel could recruit her, as was requested.” 

"I am well aware of that. What I'm unclear on is why you brought her in alive when your orders were to kill her,” the other man snapped sarcastically.

"I made the call, sir." Her death replied in the same even tone.

There was silence, no sound of moving bodies or of breathing. Her muscles twitched, as the tension in the room grew. It itched at her skin, but she remained still, listening and waiting. 

Until the other man broke it with a sharp exhale. "Let's hope you made the right call, Clint."

Footsteps retreated, the door slid closed with a click and she was left alone, or so she thought.

"You can stop pretending. They're gone." Another male voice broke through the silence. 

She slowly opened her eyes to the bright lights of the interrogation room to look at a small, unassuming man in a suit. He looked like a mark—soft body, well fed, and reeking of a government agent—but something in his eyes and his seemingly genuine smile put her on guard.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Natasha. I’m Agent Coulson.” He nodded his head and continued to speak in a conversational tone. “We've followed your work for some time, and to say it is impressive is a gross understatement. To be honest, your file was too large to carry in here in hard copy, and it would feel a bit redundant to tell you about yourself. Still it can’t be denied..."  
   
He stood a respectful distance from the table she was strapped to and rattled off compliments like a love-sick teenage boy in the professional manner of a corporate lawyer, his hands at his side, eyes on her face and smile firmly in place. He’d had good training, smelled of CIA, though his technique was more polished, and his delivery with eye contact impressed her. It was as if he truly believed what he was saying, and yet she could see more going on beneath the surface.

There was intent and purpose in his choice of words, body language, and even his non-threatening appearance. He knew how he appeared to others, used it to play into expectations and win confidence. She knew because it was one of her own greatest talents. 

It was all a ruse. The awkward compliments, unsteady gaze, and stiff body language were all part of the ploy. He was playing at the schoolboy with a crush, luring her in with his signals flashing ‘easy prey.’ He was good, but she was not going to fall for it. 

"Tell me what you want," she snapped.

"We want to offer you a job." He smiled, eyes sparkling, and his posture straightened, showing her more of the real man beneath the lie. 

"Of course you do. Who do you need me to kill?" She turned her eyes to the ceiling and sighed.

"No one right this minute." He chuckled, the footsteps drawing closer until she smelled his cheap aftershave. "I'm not going to lie to you."

"How refreshing,” she retorted, rolling her eyes for dramatic effect. A small indulgence, but one she felt she’d earned by being strapped to a damn table. 

"We're not interested in contract workers. We make long term investments in our employees."

Fixing him with a cold gaze, she wondered what he meant, but not enough to agree to be their full time errand girl. "Not interested."

“Natasha,” he sighed, taking a step back, and looked at the floor. "You’ve got a lot of red on your ledger. An impressive amount for someone so young...”

“And if I work for you it’s going to erase it?” It was her turn to laugh.

“More like balance it,” he replied with a grim smile. 

"So, I do good to ‘balance’ out my bad? Doing what? Charity work?"

"No.” He shakes his head. “We do need your particular skill set, but our purposes are different. We are the people who do what others can't or won't do. We do it to protect the world."

"Do you also take joyrides on Santa's sleigh to visit the Easter Bunny?" She sighed, wishing he would just leave her alone or get to the point.

"Only if we are very good boys and girls." He smiled that Norman Rockwell grin that made her think of people who never knew how hard it was to wash bloodstains from your skin or how the sound of a neck breaking was more of a wet pop than a brittle crack. 

For a brief moment she wondered if people like that were real or if they were just characters in stories that men like Coulson made up so they could sleep better at night.

"Think about what I've said. My offer still stands, but my boss will only wait so long." He turned and walked toward the door. 

It opened before he touched it, and her death was standing there. Cool metal colored eyes fixed on her, a small smile looking out of place against the stern features of his face. The men exchanged nods as Couslon left and her death entered the room. 

He stood beside the table, silently staring down at her. Once the door clicked closed, and the heavy slide of the locking mechanism sounded, he began removing her restraints. She didn’t ask him questions, didn’t bother. He said what he needed to with his actions, and they spoke volumes.

Clint Barton, his name seemed to mundane for a weapon. The powerful, sculpted killer who stood before her should have a name equal to his cold, emotionless eyes. 

He was sent to kill her, but he had gone against orders and saved her instead. She looked at him and wondered if he believed in Coulson’s fairy tales. 

"Why?"

A simple question that was met with a steely gaze and a punctuated blink.

"Why not?" he replied, his hand lingering on her wrist a tenth of a second longer than was necessary. 

Then he lowered his eyes, turned, and walked toward the door. "I'll show you to your quarters."

"What makes you think I'm staying?"

He didn’t answer, punching the code into the door lock and walking out of the room. 

Natasha knew she couldn’t believe in Coulson’s ideals, but it didn’t really matter if she did. She never cared about who she worked for; the who and why of killing were incidental, as was the number of lives she had taken. No measure of good would ever wipe that away. 

However, she could balance the scales between herself and Barton. That was something she could believe in, and a reason that made sense. It wasn’t belief or any measure of redemption, but it was a start.

Natasha slid off the table, took a deep breath, and walked through the open doorway.


End file.
